


A Lengthy To-Do

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [19]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cock Warming, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Humor, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Office Sex, PWP, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual exploration, very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 11:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16345787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Prior to their wedding, Jim handed him a list. Oswald finds himself consulting with that list a few months after their wedding, looking for a creative way to carve some personal time into what has become a very busy schedule as he prepares to open Gotham's first ever floating casino.This takes places right before the events of Gotham Steel. But hey, if you're into kinky shit you can probably just read it without context because it's mostly dirty, dirty porn.





	A Lengthy To-Do

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the warnings. Semi-Public sex is used to describe sex that is had in the presence of others who are unaware that the sex is happening. If that is something which might upset you, please stop here. 
> 
> For the rest of you dirty bastards: You asked, and I'm here to deliver. Remember that cock-warming fantasy I toyed with all those entries ago? Well, Jim's finally getting his wish. Enjoy!

It’s quiet in Oswald’s new office, aboard the floating casino. It’s less than two weeks from opening night, and he can almost hear it—the bustle of a crowded game room, the alluring whirl of modern slot machines and the excitement and disappointment of those who seek the thrill of high stakes gaming. All too well, Oswald understands the appeal of taking risks, and he’s had his fair share of wins and losses. Fortunately, he’s somehow managed to come up aces on the other side of his many, many bluffs.

He can’t help but contemplate the odds as he stares down at a list that has nothing at all to do with any remaining errands ahead of opening day. It isn’t the first time he’s read it, but Jim’s squished, blocky letters twisted around such filthy words never fail to entice him. Their honeymoon had been enlightening, to say the least, but there’s only so much they could realistically tick-off—spanking and role playing chief among them—and Jim’s list is surprisingly long. Not to mention the fact that some of the items therein require an audience.

Upright, do-gooder James Gordon—who would have ever suspected? Certainly not Oswald, not…back then. Now, he stares at the list—well, one item on it in particular—and licks his lips. This is simply one more secret they share, a drop in a bucket that may as well be an ocean for how much there is between them now. It’s another sort of gambling, picking up the phone and politely asking his husband to sacrifice a Saturday afternoon to assist him with some make-believe, last-minute preparations.

Jim thinks so highly of him these days, it’s easy to lie when he knows the ends justify the means in this way. He tries to be as honest as he can about everything else, in truth, but often times obfuscation, at the very least, remains necessary if he wishes to protect Jim from his other, less than kosher, endeavors. This has nothing do with that either, not really. Though, it will be quite risky given the nature of his schedule this afternoon—assuming Jim can endure it for that long.

By the time his husband finally arrives, Oswald has sequestered the list inside the false bottom of the locked, top desk drawer. He greets Jim with a tight embrace and a lingering kiss.

“Quite the circus out there,” Jim remarks as they pull apart, referring to the swarming crews tasked with the following weeks’ safety checks and final construction efforts.

“Yes, well, it’s my circus and those are my clowns, and I assure you they’re doing exactly as they ought,” Oswald replies, sensing the return of Jim’s unease. He’s always so worried that Oswald is taking on too much, that his empire might expand beyond his capacity to control it. Fortunately for them both, Oswald doesn’t consider his current obligations at even half his capacity for attention. It’s all about pacing.

Jim nods, a fond quirk to his lips, as he asks, “So, where’s the fire? You said there was something pressing?”

“Very pressing.” Oswald steps away from the circle of Jim’s arms and retreats to stand beside his executive chair, eyes focused at the space beneath his [desk](https://www.wayfair.com/furniture/pdp/astoria-grand-fast-drawers-executive-desk-w000055042.html).

Jim, so very trusting, follows him around to the other side of the fine, mahogany behemoth. Oswald hand-picked it especially, a modern throwback to an old theme. This entire office, Oswald’s personal office, was designed around it, the least modern room of the entire yacht. It will serve as a bit of a sanctuary, held apart, from what is otherwise an opulent, modern venue. All cold blues and crackling glass—themed to proudly embrace his Penguin moniker. This space, however, is only for Oswald—a place to escape the trappings of his socialite clientele and the sleek perfection catered to their fickle tastes—and it feels more like the home he misses in the evening when he’s working.

“I don’t see anything,” Jim says, regaining Oswald’s split attention. He’d chalk it up to nerves, but really, it’s anticipation swirling in his veins.

“I’ve noticed, the past few days, that it’s quite drafty in here,” he explains innocently, “Parts of me get a bit of a chill throughout the day.”

Jim’s brow furrows, already thinking of ways to solve Oswald’s problems. “I can pick you up one of those space heaters.”  

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he hedges, taking his seat. “You brought your mouth, after all.”

“Wha—” Jim begins, then stills completely.

Oswald is certain that if he were to press an ear to the man’s chest, all would be silent for the handful of moments it takes him to comprehend Oswald’s meaning. Slowly, Jim turns to face him fully, eyes wide above his flushed cheeks. He licks his lips and casts a sideways glance back toward the cubby beneath the desk, fully obscured by an inch of thick back panel. Seeing the cogs turning in Jim’s assessing gaze, Oswald presses the lever on his chair, lets it drop him a couple inches closer to the floor.

“You’ll fit,” he assures, and gestures to the pulled blinds behind him, empty matte finish walls on either side. “Safely hidden from all but me.”

Jim’s chewing his lips, his breath uneven and suddenly Oswald isn’t so sure of himself. Just because his husband wrote the item down, doesn’t mean he’s entirely comfortable at the prospect of making it real. They’d learned that little truth on their honeymoon as well, though it had turned out quite well in the end. He’s hoping this will too, can admit that now Jim’s suggested it, Oswald has spent an inordinate amount of time pondering how to make it happen. He wants it too, thrills at all the power and danger the act itself implies.

The trust it requires.

Still, Jim is hesitant, tellingly silent as he casts his gaze to the floor. It’s something they both want, in abstract, but if the reality is uncomfortable for Jim, then he will happily strike it from their lists. Oswald rolls forward, brackets Jim between his knees, grips him loosely behind the thighs. His gaze is inescapable this way as he tilts his head back to catch Jim’s wary eyes.

“You can say no, darling,” Oswald tells him. “I ordered lunch for both of us, it’ll be here in just few minutes, and then we can go for a walk or test the springs on our new bed—the private deck’s just been furnished, after all.”

“I love you,” Jim tells him, quietly emphatic, before folding to his knees, one hand sliding up Oswald’s thigh, “and I want this.”

But Jim holds up his other hand in the intimate space between them, and Oswald can see how it tremors. He sighs, takes Jim’s hand between both of his own, maintains careful eye contact as he brings it to his mouth to press gentle kisses against the knuckles. Oswald presses it against his cheek when he’s finished, leaning against their clasped hands as he tilts his head to the side.

“Tell me what you need,” he says then, tone entreating.

Jim nods, settles more comfortably onto his knees, with his backside resting snuggly between the arched soles of his feet. Oswald is certain the man has no idea how inviting he looks, how sweet. Those soulful blues eyes—the same color as his own but such a warmer shade—innocently beguiling.

“Can you explain it to me?” Jim requests. “How we’ll—who’s gonna be here, how long I need to? I trust you,” he tacks on quickly, “I just…it’s—”

“It’s a vulnerable position to be in,” Oswald agrees.

Jim opens his mouth, as if to further elucidate his concerns, or perhaps to justify them. Oswald stops him with a patient finger pressed against his lips. He needn’t explain himself, and that’s one more thing Oswald is puzzling together as they navigate this facet of their sexual relationship. Jim is always concerned with appearing needy; fearing that his moments of hesitance are somehow a burden to their sex life. It isn’t a concern he’d ever predicted for himself but caring for someone—for Jim—in this way is as rewarding as it is unexpected.

“I have an important meeting scheduled this afternoon,” he reveals, happy to address Jim’s concerns. “The state’s chief inspector wants to submit his review in person.”

“Okay,” Jim says, sighing as he visibly relaxes. Clearly, it’s not anyone he knows. “How long do we have?”

Oswald checks the clock on the far wall, replies, “That depends on whether or not you want to start before or after lunch.”

Jim flushes. “I already ate.”

“Eager?” He arches a playful brow.

“I—” Jim swallows, takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m…” He reaches down to palm himself through his pants. “Fuck.”

“Me too,” Oswald confesses, and there’s an intimate fondness shared between them before they reach for each other. Jim wraps his arms around Oswald’s waist, buries his face in the soft fabric that covers his stomach. Oswald bends himself forward, gathering Jim to him as he feels the shift in the air; feels the way his stubborn, willful husband becomes slumped against him in compliance.

Waiting.  

“Do you want me to take care of you?” he asks, leaning back to rub Jim’s shoulders and neck, slowly working his fingers around the base of his skull and up toward his temples.

Jim nods against him, almost nuzzling against his belly button. “Yes.”

“You’re such a good boy, James,” he praises, loves the way Jim clings more tightly in response. “And good boys follow the rules. We’ve never done this before, so if at any time you need to rest, then do so. I will be very disappointed if you hurt yourself to please me, do you understand?”

“Yes.” Jim sighs, runs hands up and down Oswald’s thighs. “What about you?”

“I’ve thought about that,” he confesses. There will be no way to verbally communicate while others are in the room, not unless they want to be discovered. “What if I reach down and press your forehead, like this?” He demonstrates, pushing Jim back from his stomach gently with the pads of his fore, middle and ring fingers. “Will that be okay?”

Jim grins, gaze warm as he says, “You always think of everything.”

“Speaking of,” he says, now moving to fully disentangle himself from Jim’s grasp. He treads across the office to retrieve a small, brown paper gift bag from its hiding place between the couch and the adjacent wall. “I thought you might want to wear something a bit more comfortable.”

Oswald hands off the bag once Jim climbs to his feet and retakes his seat to watch his husband dig through the contents. Jim’s eyebrows raise as he retrieves the black fleece lounge pants Oswald ordered especially for this occasion. Power dynamics are nothing new to them, however, building these premeditated ‘scenes’ are a very recent endeavor. Nevertheless, Oswald takes Jim’s comfort very seriously.

“These are…” Jim clears his throat, fingers rubbing along the bunched fabric appreciatively. “Thank you.”

He’s so earnest, regards Oswald with such genuine adoration, and it’s humbling—always—to be so esteemed by this man. Will he ever grow accustomed to it? Will he ever find himself complaining to Butch about his ball and chain, comfortable enough in their bond that he learns to take it for granted? He hopes not.

“There’s more,” Oswald tells him, just as the desk phone begins to ring. Jim tilts his head forgivingly toward the phone, working the buttons of his shirt loose. He watches him from the corner of his eye as he picks up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Your lunch is here, sir,” Dianne, his day shift receptionist informs.

“Excellent. Send it up in…” Oswald eyes his husband, currently folding his slacks and dress shirt in his undies. “About fifteen minutes.”

“You betchya, Boss.”

Oswald smiles, pleased with Dianne’s seamless assimilation into his fold, so far. She’s still in the ‘on-boarding’ phase, but Oswald remains optimistic despite his caution. He doesn’t want another Penn situation, after all. Just thinking the name puts a sour taste in his mouth, so he pushes himself up from his seat and approaches his now softly-clad husband.

Jim is just slightly taller when they stand toe to toe, but now they’re more of a height while he’s not wearing shoes. His feet are snugly encased in the warm, cashmere socks Oswald prepared for him instead, peeking out from beneath the overlong pants. Too, he’s decided to exchange his undershirt for the thermal Henley in the bag, about two sizes too big, and it adds to the overall effect. To create the illusion that Jim is somehow smaller than in actuality; Softer.

Malleable.

Oswald appraises him openly, notes the subtle shifts of Jim’s body language. The way his posture is less pronounced, the crease of his brow relaxed, eyes uncertain as they follow Oswald’s approach. He closes the distance between them, draws Jim up against him until he feels a familiar weight laid upon his shoulder. Jim breathes against his neck as Oswald winds arms around his waist, and it’s then that he feels it; a slight tremor.

“You don’t need to worry,” Oswald tells him quietly, raising a hand to cup the exposed side of Jim’s face, thumb sliding gently along his jaw, as he slightly rocks them side to side. “I promised to always care for you, Jim. To give you everything you need, and you need this, don’t you? You need me to give you this?”

He hears Jim swallow, the shuddered breath as he exhales and then shakily utters, “Yes. Oz, please.”

“Quietly find a comfortable position beneath my desk.” He instructs, pressing a kiss to Jim’s temple before stepping away. “I need to put your other things away.”

“I should have done that,” Jim replies. “I’m sorry.”

Oswald leans back into his space, gently takes Jim’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and presses their foreheads together. “Such a sweet boy,” he tells him. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. You’re going to work so hard to be quiet, and still. I know you’re going to do your very best. Now go and do as I said, not another word.”

Jim nods, eyes already beginning to lose their ability to focus, and Oswald feels his stomach swoop as Jim carefully crosses the room. His every step is measured, focused entirely on being quiet. It’s difficult to avoid becoming mesmerized, watching this proud, stubborn man transform so completely into something docile and eager to please. Reluctantly, Oswald forces himself to focus on collecting all of Jim’s discarded items and stashing them out of sight.

By the time he turns back around, Jim is completely out of sight, hidden beneath the desk. Waiting. Oswald swallows, unzips his pants as he draws closer to his chair. Not all that long ago, the idea of this act alone would have made him hard with wanting. Now, it’s easier to control…it also doesn’t hurt that he’d masturbated in the bathroom prior to calling Jim. Simply as a precaution.

Absolutely justified, as it turns out.

The picture Jim makes, on his knees, legs spread wide, so he can sit low enough to avoid hitting his head, and his mouth open—waiting—causes Oswald’s breath to catch. The multitude chain of thoughts constantly whirring in the background of his conscious all grind to a halt. It only lasts a moment, before he recovers enough of his faculties to gracefully take his seat lest his knees give out entirely.

“You are…perfect,” he praises, reaching into his zipper and withdrawing his still mostly flaccid cock. There’s no struggle to position it correctly, having chosen crotch-less lace panties especially for this occasion. He rolls the chair forward until his stomach is pressed firmly along the edge of the desk, then spreads his legs wide, his exposed testicles resting against the smooth leather of his chair.  He adjusts his jacket around his sides and checks to make sure that everything below the table is carefully concealed.

“Prove to me how good you can be, Jim,” he says, leaning back to peek at him, which does nothing for his self-control. Not with how Jim’s hands are pressed palm down against the floor, his legs bent into some flexible W form as he tilts his head upward to meet Oswald’s gaze.

Oswald licks his lips, reaches down to trace Jim’s bottom lip with his thumb and forces himself through his terms. “Hold my cock in your mouth, keep it warm. But don’t suck or otherwise touch. If you need to come, wait for the meeting to be over, and I’ll take care of you.”

Jim nods.

“James,” Oswald reproaches.

“Yes, Oz.”

“Good.” He reclaims his hand and sits up fully. A moment later, his cock is enclosed in soft, wet heat. Even expecting it, the sensation nearly overwhelms him, eyes rolling up as his head falls back against his shoulders. He takes long minutes to adjust, Jim exercising his masterful control brilliantly to make that acclimation possible.

The knock on the office door barely registers, and Oswald isn’t fully aware until Dianne is stepping across the threshold carrying a footlong from Subway and his much-needed drink. Once his awareness is successfully drawn from his dick, Oswald’s heart ratchets up a notch. His receptionist is utterly oblivious, tittering away about his upcoming meeting and how it’s nice his husband stopped by to say hello on his day off, completely oblivious.

“You didn’t get enough caffeine this morning, did you, Boss?” She says, folding a napkin to place on his desk, then sitting his drink atop it. “I’m sure this’ll perk you right up!”

He clears his throat, sniffs. “I’m certain it will. Thank you, Dianne.”

Once she leaves, it’s tempting to sink right back into that miasma of sensation, but this is an exercise in control for both of them. Determinedly, he takes up his sandwich and makes quick work of his lunch. By the time the inspector arrives, his desktop is clear, and he’s collected himself enough to give the man most of his divided attention.

“Mister Gordon,” the inspector greets, holding out his hand in offer. It’s a bit too far for him to reach from this distance, an unspoken prompt to stand as formal niceties typically dictate. “Barney Sands, of the state’s zoning commission.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mister Sands,” Oswald replies, apologetic, as he offers his hand as far as it will reach in turn. “I’m experiencing some flare up from an old injury.”

“Oh, by all means,” the man replies, stepping forward to accept the handshake. He’s an older gentleman, hair graying at his temples and a bit beyond, with sharp brown eyes and crow’s feet at their corners. When he smiles, it’s as sincere as it is professional, and perhaps Oswald would discern a few things about his character, but Jim chooses just that moment to swallow around his dick.  

He coughs as Sands continues, “I must say, this endeavor of yours is quite impressive on paper, and even more so in person. Oh and, before I forget, congratulations on your recent nuptials. James Gordon has quite the reputation, I hear—a good man.”

“He is, yes. Very, _very_ good. Thank you,” Oswald replies, almost hysterically, as he retrieves his whiskey and tumblers from the second drawer where he keeps them within reach for just such occasions, “and welcome aboard. I trust you’ve been on the grand tour already?”

“Oh yes,” Sands replies as he accepts the proffered finger of Johnny Walker. “Your man—Gilzean, is it?—showed me all the bells and whistles.”

“And were those bells and whistles up to par?” he boldly inquires, throwing back his own drink far too quickly, ready to cut straight to business when he feels a Jim’s tongue adjust beneath his shaft. He wonders if Jim’s heart is beating just as fiercely as his own. And this must be the whole point, yes? Or, at the very least, part of the appeal of this hastily scribbled act on Jim’s list.

The seedy nature of their shared secret, the risk of discovery. Doing something so inherently filthy right beneath the noses of potential onlookers. It’s thrilling, engages his arousal in new and unprecedented ways. And while it certainly appeals to his own devious nature—the allure of getting away with it—it’s all the dirty, hidden truths this reveals about Jim’s own nature that truly whets his appetite. Now, more than ever, he yearns to thrust forward into the constant heat of Jim’s mouth. He can feel his cock hardening at the thought and he needs to shut it down, but focusing on his breathing, controlling his reactions is a non-option. Not if he doesn’t want to rouse Mister Sand’s suspicions.

Earn them both a charge of public indecency. How scandalous.

How inescapably appealing.

“Shit…” Oswald mutters under his breath, as Sands rifles through his briefcase for the inspection paperwork. He can feel every millimeter of Jim’s tantalizing, minute withdraw as he shifts to accommodate Oswald’s burgeoning erection.

“I’m sorry, what’s that?” Sands asks, drawing his attention.

“Did you find it?” Oswald replies. “The paperwork, that is.”

“Oh, certainly.” He lays the documents out neatly and begins to explain, “There are four main areas of safety we take into account when approving new businesses for opening, trip hazards especially…”

He tries his best to pay attention, maintain a collected front, but Jim’s mouth is sliding back down along his shaft, trying to determine a comfortable way to continue his task. It feels as if it takes forever until, finally, Jim’s nose is buried once more against the lace fabric of his panties. He can feel the head of his cock, nudged against the back of Jim’s throat, rough breaths exhaled against his skin and it’s almost too much. Too much to ask that neither of them move, that Oswald not reach down and seize Jim by his hair, fuck into his mouth—his throat—with abandon.

Or, maybe he’ll haul him up. Bend him over the desk and—

“Your signature, Mister Gordon?” Sands asks, head tilted in polite expectation as he holds out a pen.

“Oh—Of course!” Oswald jolts, then sputters when he feels the abrupt slide of his cock within the pliant shape of Jim’s mouth, and fuck—when did he learn to do that? To just…open his throat and take it? Jim doesn’t make so much as a sound or twitch a muscle. “My apologies, my mind is buzzing with the ever-growing list of preparations ahead of the grand opening!” He hastily explains, accepting the pen and scribbling his name along the dotted line.

He shakily pours himself a second drink, reaches down to grip Jim’s hair and move him back and forth, when Sands ducks into his briefcase once more. He lets go once Jim gets the picture, working his cock from root to tip.

“I completely understand,” the inspector replies, seemingly unaffected by Oswald’s slip in attention. “It’s all quite dry,” he admits good-humoredly. “I’ve yet to meet a business man I couldn’t bore near to death.”  

Oswald chuckles, despite himself. He is anything but bored at current, can’t keep himself from imperceptibly rocking along with Jim’s mouth now. He’s consumed with the experience—fucking Jim, unseen but right in front of, an unknowing audience—focusing on the sensation, wondering if Jim will reach up to put a stop to it any second. Sands seems pleased with his reaction, however awkward, and collects the documents from the desk before reaching out to once again shake his hand. Oswald replies in kind, leaning forward with a tight smile as he uses the motion to shove his cock down Jim’s throat. He feels his balls squeeze tight, and he releases Mister Sands hastily before dropping back into his seat.

He feels Jim’s breath quicken; a series of tiny, harsh exhalations.

“Perhaps I’ll stop by and try my hand at Black Jack once the doors officially open,” Sands suggests.

Oswald swallows his whiskey. “Absolutely.” He’d agree to pay this man half of his inheritance if only he would leave. He needs more oxygen, can’t risk panting for it the way he so desperately needs, works to keep each breath shallow and inaudible instead.

“Well, I think that about sums it up.” The inspector finally moves to stand, bending to collect his briefcase. “I appreciate you taking time to meet with me today; I know all these state inspections can be uncomfortable.”

“Very uncomfortable,” he agrees, thinking of his aching testicles, the way Jim flicks his tongue and swirls it over the head of his cock and the seam of his foreskin. “Too much!” he practically shouts, cock pulsing as he comes abruptly, spilling into Jim’s mouth. He clenches his teeth, holds himself impossibly still as Jim suckles the head of his cock and drinks his come.

Mister Sands blinks when he resurfaces, furrows his brow at Oswald, then shakes his head. “Right. Well, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mister Gordon. Good luck with the casino!”

“Pleasant trip, Inspector Sands.” Oswald takes a fortifying breath. “You’re welcome to stop by for a round of Hold ‘Em—”

“Black Jack—”

“Black Jack!” Oswald corrects awkwardly. “Stop in anytime.”

Sands nods and finally beats a hasty retreat, much to Oswald’s would-be mortification, but all is forgotten when he hears Jim’s broken moan from beneath the desk. Gently, he rolls away from the edge, eyes widening when takes in Jim’s red, watery gaze and flushed cheeks.

“Are you alright?” Oswald asks, pressing his fingers against Jim’s forehead.  

“I, uh…” Jim huffs, reaches for the waist of his sweats and pulls them down to reveal the mess he’s made of himself.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Oswald hums. “Did I…was I too rough?”

“I liked it,” Jim tells him, voice emphatic. Then, more sheepishly, he adds, “Obviously.”

“You’re not…” Oswald isn’t sure how to say what he means. There’s a space Jim usually gets into—a certain state of mind—when Oswald uses him like he just did. He’s…uncharacteristically lucid.

“No,” Jim says, then blows out a breath. “I couldn’t, not after you started talking. It was…I mean—”

“Thrilling,” Oswald supplies, leaning forward as his heart beats staccato with the fresh, new memory.

Jim snorts, climbs up from the floor and straddles Oswald’s lap. “Filthy.”

“That too,” Oswald giddily concedes, squeezing possessive handfuls of Jim’s fleece-covered backside. “Who knew you were such an exhibitionist?”

Jim giggles, then groans before burying his face in Oswald’s neck. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

Oswald hums his agreement, teases, “You are a terrible influence.”

“Me?” Jim asks, incredulous.

“Before you, I lived a very chaste life—”

“Yeah, sure. Okay,” Jim interrupts, oozing sarcasm, “Flouncing around in your panties, flashing—”

“Flashing? I flashed you?” Oswald snorts. “You broke into my domicile, scandalized my innocence—”

“Domicile,” Jim parrots under his breath, snorts. “Innocence?” He protests far more loudly. “Is that what we’re calling it these days? More like jacking off to Huck Finn.”

There’s no reasonable reply he can offer to that absurd claim, laughter bubbling out of him before he can stop it. This was a happy surprise; discovering that, beneath his serious demeanor, Jim is playful. And while Oswald understood the lure of his traditionally attractive features, he never understood what it was that kept women so tied in knots over him. Yes, obviously, Oswald imagined he’d be a phenomenal lover—but that’s not it at all. A little practice, and anyone can learn to be a descent lover. The truth is actually specific only to Jim—there’s just something addictive about being entrusted with all the secrets of self that he guards so closely.

On paper, Jim should be cookie-cutter and predictable, his motives easily discernible. Yet, just when it seems you’ve got him puzzled out, he peels back another layer, once again obscuring the picture. He is as simple and complex as any Picasso, abstract and beautiful.

And then he opens his mouth.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Oz,” Jim cajoles, sweetly, once his laughter subsides. “I’ll be your Huckleberry.”

Nevermind.

“You’re terrible.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank for reading! Kudos are appreciated, if you enjoyed the story, and comments are absolutely adored. <3


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